ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Anonymous, "An excellent new Ballad in Praise of Miss Linley" St. James's Chronicle (3 April 1773).
1773: Horace Walpole
1773: Frances Burney
1773: Lord M.
1778: Richard Tickell
1782: Richard Brinsley Sheridan
1785: Samuel Jackson Pratt
1792: M. S.
1792: Dr. Henry Harington
1792: Simonides Pure
1796: William Linley
1801 ca.: William Jackson
Your talk, my dear Madam, is surely too hard,
And, believe me, it vexes me inly,
That the Sense and the Rhyme should divide your poor Bard,
In praise of the beautiful Linley.
By poetical Licence, permit me to change
Two Letters, before I begin it
The Fiction is easy; confess it not strange
To call this sweet Warbler a Linnet.
Still, still, for my Purpose all Language is weak,
And the Metre — I can't discipline it:
No Words can I find, e'er so long tho' I seek,
To express all I feel for my Linnet.
Ye Bards! who make Verse to your Mistress' Brow,
And in sad woful Ballads who hymn it,
Oh! grant me some Language; some Metre allow,
To sing the bright Charms of my Linnet.
Your Captive too soon felt your Power, for sure
Your Eyes are the Meshes which in-net;
Your Soul-thrilling Voice the Decoy to allure
All Hearts, my adorable Linnet.
The fam'd Golden Pippin, the Goddess's Meed,
Were Music and Beauty to win it,
No Paris to Venus the Prize had decreed,
But to thee my dear amiable Linnet.
The Savage, when first struck by th' Notes of th' Lyre,
Ee'n fancied the Deuce was within it;
And, surely, some Angel, I think, must inspire
The Form of my ravishing Linnet.
The Pencil of Reynolds some Graces may steal,
But her Voice — ah! unless he can limn it,
His Colours in vain wou'd the Image reveal
Of the bright, the melodious Linnet.
Thus, Madam, you see I've exhausted my Rhyme,
So lengthen'd, so fine-drawn, no more I can spin it;
Then dismiss me, I pray, nor to Measure confine
The Raptures I feel for my Linnet.